My bedroom is at the end of the hallway on the second floor. I have my own bathroom, which JD, my cat, sleeps in when I'm in bed. The only way to see JD is to go through my bedroom and visit him in his bathroom.
It's 10:15 a.m. I wake up groggily to the sound of 6-8 immensely cheerful, and noisily so, 8 year old girls down the hallway. Deciding to lie in bed and snooze a few more minutes, I suddenly hear one of them scream "Let's go see JD!" and the pitter-patter of several pairs of feet booking it towards my door. Heart beating out of my chest, and obviously not in attire fit for a meet-and-greet, I throw myself under my blankets and assume the fetal position. As the doorknob turns and the door opens a sliver, barely containing all the children bent on petting a cat, Anna screams "No! Don't go in there!" God bless you, Anna.
Just a few minutes later they're all out on the trampoline, jumping, and continuing to stagger-scream so that there is not one discernible moment of silence. I need to go to the bathroom, and foolishly choose the water closet closest to the front door to do my business. I am actively going to the bathroom when they all come in and the light switch clicks to what someone assumed to be on. The door opens even farther than before (but not far enough) and stops as I yell "I'm in here! I'm in here! I'm in here!"
All of this to say one thing- A lot of people thought that when I'd go to Africa, I'd be living in a mud hut, getting malaria every other week, and fighting lions off to get to school. While I don't mind the assumption (none of those are true, by the way,) two of the most traumatic experiences of my life in Africa so far have been Anna's 7th and 8th birthday parties.
-Will
"How 'bout some many spray?!"
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